


Third Time Lucky

by GreenEyedKestrel



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenEyedKestrel/pseuds/GreenEyedKestrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki has lost something precious, and tracked it to London but no further. What could be more natural than to engage the services of the world's only consulting detective? However, he gets a lot more than he bargained for...</p><p>Post- Thor: The Dark World<br/>Post- His Last Vow</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter the First: In which John goes Shopping, and Sherlock takes a Case.

“There's a new player in the game.”

“Mmm... what?” John Watson looked up from his laptop, reaching out a hand for his mug of tea...which was not there. He sighed, realising it was in the long-fingered hand of the gentleman obsessively pacing the well-worn living room carpet.

“It's the only explanation that makes a modicum of sense- stupid, _stupid_ ,” he growled, spinning on his heel to stop dead in front of the mess of papers and photographs that all but concealed the map of London on the wall before him.

“A spate of jewellery thefts from antique shops, all committed by hired small-time thieves, no trace of their employer, stolen items found dumped a few days after each theft.”

He took an almost violent swig of John's tea, grimaced, and placed it back down on the table with exaggerated gentleness before flicking shut the lid of John's laptop and staring at him with burning eyes, fists planted on either side of the maltreated computer 

“Thanks Sherlock, you just lost me everything I'd written in the last half-hour. 

“You weren't listening,” he stated with a hint of petulance. John opened his mouth to protest, but the torrent of words hit him before he got a syllable out. “An even more 'baffling' series of break-ins and disturbances at various archaeological digs and sites of ancient historical interest around Britain, executed with scientific precision, no obvious damage or theft.”

John silently wondered how his flatmate could slot actual audible quotation marks around the word 'baffling' without doing anything so vulgar as gesticulating.

“-and finally-”

-he broke off as Mrs Hudson's voice travelled up the stairs.

“Sherlock dear? It's for you.

~:~ 

Two minutes later, there was a second lanky dark-haired gentleman on their sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. A slight smile quirked his lip as he watched Sherlock mentally catalogue everything from his brand of hairgel to the fibre content of the vibrant green scarf around his neck.

John sat back in his chair, watching the two men take each other's measure. This case could turn out to be very interesting- he sensed a similarity between the two men that went beyond any superficial details of appearance. There was an intensity in this man that echoed the fire in Sherlock, but it burned much closer to the surface. They mirrored each other in appearance too- this new client was tall and angular, pale in contrast to the impeccably tailored dark suit he wore. However, while Sherlock's hair surrounded his head in a halo of curls, lending him an almost childish air of innocence when in repose, this man had his slicked back, curling free only where it hit his collar, which brought his prominent cheekbones and long nose into sharp relief.

John was intrigued- normally, by now Sherlock would be rattling off his usual list of deductions, everything from his new client's childhood history to his current employment, but the habitually arrogant man was curiously quiet, and it was the newcomer who broke the silence.

“I hear you possess the most brilliant mind in Britain, Mr Holmes, ” he said, and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, accepting the fact without acknowledging the compliment, as was his habit. “I very much hope that this is the case. I am, I regret to say, concerned that you may be my last option.”

John leaned forward to say “We'll certainly do all we can to-” but Sherlock cut him off with an impatient flourish of one long-fingered hand.

“Name?” he demanded of the stranger, and John sighed, picking up his pen.

“You can call me Luke,” the man said, smiling in a way that somehow showed far too many teeth.

Sherlock nodded, as if a suspicion had just been confirmed, and leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, echoing the posture of the man in front of him.

“How can I be of service...Luke?”

“Do you have a second name?” cut in John, trying not to sound as exasperated as he felt. Who was this man? They seemed to be some kind of wordless conspiracy in the room already, and he'd barely been there for two minutes.

Sherlock flicked his fingers at John again, without taking his eyes off Luke.

“Unimportant, John, don't interrupt.”

That smile twitched once again at the corner of Luke's mouth, and he spoke.

“A ring. Bronze, one small green stone inset into the band. Norse in origin, nothing elaborate or obviously valuable, but of not inconsiderable provenance. I received word that it had made its way to this city, but I have had no luck tracking it down since. I am hoping your methods will succeed where mine have failed.”

He held out his hand between them, as though offering a handshake, but there must have been something cupped in the curve of his palm, because Sherlock drew a thoughtful breath. John saw nothing from where he was sat, and refrained from asking, knowing that, at best, he would be barked at, and at worse, something might be thrown at his head.

Sherlock stared into Luke's gaze, seeing the barely-contained glee behind the icy blue, in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, analysing the smile twitching at the very edges of his lips. As both of them were perched on the edges of their seats, their noses were barely inches apart. Sherlock had never had any regard for the personal space of others.

“How long did it take you?” the other man murmured, returning his gaze without blinking.

“Longer than I'd have liked. I had my suspicions, but your choice of name confirmed them.” He glanced down at the man's still-outstretched hand, and watched as the ring in it vanished in a flicker of green light. “And after that business in Greenwich earlier this year, I've been keeping an open mind.”

He blinked, a decision made.

“John, we're out of milk. Why haven't you been shopping yet?”

~:~

As John clattered down the stairs, grumbling loudly about friends and colleagues who took long-suffering flatmates for granted, Sherlock watched him go, chuckling almost fondly to himself.

“Don't tell him,” he said, turning back to 'Luke', “I want to see if he can work it out himself. Isn't it tiring, keeping up that facade?” His deep voice held a fascination in it, an unquenchable thirst for every detail of this shining new specimen so totally outside his previous experience. He reached out, taking hold of the man's scarf and letting it fall through his fingers. “Incredible..” he breathed.

'Luke' laughed, his voice ringing through the flat.

“Not as tiring as you might imagine.” In one fluid movement, he rose to his feet, stretching, and a green glow rippled over his body, melting away the scarf, the suit, the long, dark coat. Beneath the illusion, Sherlock saw black leather and leaf green linen, engraved bronze at his shoulders and forearms. Unfortunately, leaning forward as he was, Loki's belt buckle nearly took his nose off as he stood.

Sprawling back into his chair to escape said belt buckle, Sherlock looked up at the young god.

“You wanted me to see it. You're more than accomplished enough to include the details that I saw were missing. An aesthetically perfect disguise is always more easily spotted than one that includes realistic flaws, and disguise is your specialty. So why make it easy for me?” He sounded almost disappointed. “Why insult my intelligence that way?”

Now it was Loki's turn to invade Sherlock's space as his hands thudded down on the armrests of the detective's chair.

“Do you know... he breathed, “...I haven't the faintest idea? I don't even know why I thought that this was my only course of action... But you want this case,” he finished with a deciciously arrogant assurance. “You want it so much that you're going to take it, despite the realisation that you will shortly come to. Because your great weakness, Sherlock Holmes, is your inquiring mind, and I can feel it inquiring so loudly that I can almost follow your thought proccesses.”

Loki looked down at the detective with undisguised mischief in his eyes, his smile, in the very way he held himself. This was going to be such fun, he could tell. Other mortals weren't worth the time of day, but this one... this one had potential. The only issue would be holding back long enough to hook him...

“My thought processes... currently they are telling me that you're trying to elicit some kind of emotional response. I can't be sure that I can read your body language in the same way I would an average man, but your proximity to me, coupled with the tone of your voice, suggests either an attempt at intimidation, unlikely, or that you're... and I hesitate to use such a word, but the phrase 'sexual advance' seems too strong for this particular instance, so 'flirting' will have to suffice. Given the reports of your behaviour over the Atlantic, I am not in the least surprised. How is Tony, by the way? Have you seen him lately?”

“Hah. You know the iron man?” Loki laughed, turning away as he walked to the window. Sherlock pulled out his phone, noting the Asgardian's slight flinch at the mention of Tony Stark.

**I have a friend of yours in my living room. Missing any 'gods'? SH**

“We play chess via text on occasion. Well, I suspect the games are finished by his butler when he gets bored and wanders off to tinker with something glowy, but the end result's the same.”

**Thor's still in London? Didn't strike me as the kind to go native. Must enjoy the tea. Or something. TS**

“So you'll take the case?” Loki asked over his shoulder, looking out onto the street.

**Wrong brother. SH**

“Did you ever doubt it?” Sherlock replied, leaping from his chair.

**Ah. Need a hand? Jarvis can clear my schedule. TS**

Loki grinned.

**Don't trouble yourself. I was bored anyway. SH**

 

 


	2. Chapter the Second: In which Sherlock's Violin is Threatened with Most Outrageous Abuse, and John Drops a Mug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have an apology to make- I don't have an update schedule. Unfortunately I have both a day job and run a teenytiny costume business in my spare time, so finding time to write when I'm not utterly knackered is difficult. Also, I have a new muse, and he's a bit of a dick. When Loki wants me to write, I do it ALL THE TIME, but when he's bored my pen dries up :(
> 
> Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy this!

“So, why did you want me out of the flat?” asked John bluntly when he returned from the shop. He had passed Luke in the hallway, where he realised that the tall man also shared Sherlock's penchant for long, swirling coats.

“Whatever gave you that impression?” enquired Sherlock politely, not looking up from his book. “I merely thought that Luke might require a cup of tea, and having no milk in the house is a frankly barbaric state of affairs.”

“I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. I know when I'm being herded out. Why did you want to be alone with that man?” A horrible suspicion was forming in the back of his mind, and he hesitated to voice it. “Sherlock, he wasn't... you're not... please tell me he wasn't... a dealer?”

“What?” Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised. He turned a page. “Don't be ridiculous, John. Besides, I'm clean, you know that.”

“Right. Ok. Well then...” John sighed, hefting the bags he carried onto the kitchen table and beginning to re-stock the fridge. “But even I can see that he's hiding something.”

As John swung the fridge door shut, having had to wedge the milk in the door next to a decidedly unsavoury-looking plastic tub that may possibly have contained a human tongue, Sherlock gave in.

“It's a test, John,” he called over his shoulder.

“A test? What d'you mean, what kind of test?” John's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If this is one of your experiments, you can forget it. I'm not helping you out again after that time my eyebrows fell out.” He sat down at the table with his back to the insufferable man, flipping open his laptop.

“For you. You've been getting lazy, I want to see if you can deduce his true identity.”

John sighed as the computer whirred and chimed its way through booting up.

“I'm not playing your games, Sherlock,” he stated irritably, adding under his breath, “...and you've got a funny definition of lazy...”

He reached for his tea, then realised he hadn't made any, and pushed his chair back with a sigh.

**kettle**

**teapot**

**teabag**

**cups**

**milk**

**sugar**

**water**

 

**steep**

 

Sherlock listened to the familiar sounds of John making tea, and smiled inwardly. When a book was nudged aside on the table by his elbow to make room for the brimming teacup that his flatmate gently placed upon the scratched and ringed wood, he didn't even blink. As John sat down again, Sherlock deigned to speak.

“Come now, John, you have a mind. It may not operate at quite the same level as mine, but it's there, simmering quietly away, and every so often a bubble of inspiration bobs to the surface.”

John ignored him.

“John.”

…

“ _John._ ”

…

“ _JOHN!_ ”

The doctor chuckled under his breath as Sherlock gave up in disgust, snapping shut the book in his hands and propelling it with vicious precision at the union flag cushion, (“Really, John, you were a soldier. It's only the Union Jack over water.”) Still with his back to the irate detective, John heard the snap of violin case catches, and a moment later, angry music filled the flat.

John was developing quite a good ear for composers, and this one was a surprise.

“Wagner? Since when do you play orchestral scores? I thought you were more into solos and concertos?”

“It seemed thematically appropriate.”

“But opera?” John was poised to ask why, but suddenly realised that any questions would count as 'playing'. He closed his mouth, and continued typing.

Having left an expectant lull in the music in hopes of drawing out John's sense of curiosity, Sherlock threw himself back into playing, bowing hard enough to wake the dead. The first violin score for Ride of the Valkyries echoed round the flat, and John gave up on his blog. Snapping his laptop shut, he grabbed his coat from the hook, muttering, “I need some air...” before clattering down the stairs.

“Damned stubborn soldiers and their damned lazy brains!” growled the frustrated detective, throwing himself back into his chair. Violin still tucked under his chin, the fingers of Sherlock's left hand spidered up and down the slender neck of the Stradivarius, the stirring melody still playing in his mind, while his right hand occupied itself with the business of texting his infuriating flatmate.

**Wagner was a clue. SH**

**Not an idiot, Sherlock- still not playing. JW**

~:~

John sighed, nursing his inferior cup of tea in the cafe below the flat. Speedy's may have been good at some things, but tea certainly wasn't one of them, and it wasn't helping his rising urge to throw the cheap china against the wall. He'd been fighting that particular urge for a while, and had left the flat in case he actually gave in to it, du to the fact that his target would not have been the damask wallpaper, but the instrument in Sherlock's dexterous hands. He knew for a fact that if the Stradivarius was so much as scratched, its owner's wrath and vengeance would be terrible to behold (and quite possibly end up being investigated by Scotland Yard's homicide department), so for now he sipped the weak brew, made a face, and picked up a piece of cake instead. He'd given in and bought a plateful, after suffering torture by German composer he felt he deserved it.

“Good afternoon, John.”

The doctor jumped, dropping his mug and spilling tepid tea all over his corduroys.

“Oh, did I startle you? I do apologise.”

Mycroft Holmes slid into the seat opposite him, smiling oilily as ever as John frantically dabbed at his own leg with a handful of disintegrating napkins.

“For God's sake, Mycroft, must you move like a bloody cat? I swear it's something in the genes, your brother's almost creepily silent...”

He looked up, dumping the wodge of teastained tissue on the table, and leaned back, folding his arms.

“What is it, then?” he demanded bluntly, too annoyed to be polite. He shouldn't even be here, he'd only moved back in while Mary was on holiday. 'He misses you,' she'd said. 'It'll be like old times,' she'd said. Too bloody right it was.

“My brother's latest client,” Mycroft began, plucking invisible lint from his immaculate sleeve with a twitch of his fingers.

“Posh boy with a hairgel fetish. What about him?”

Mycroft's lip quirked in amusement at the irreverent description.

“It would be... inadvisable for Sherlock to take this case.” One of the most powerful men in the Northern hemisphere leaned back in his uncomfortable plastic chair, long fingers interlaced over his portly stomach. “There are certain...complicating factors”

John gaped for a moment, then shook his head.

“Why am I even surprised... You know who he is then?”

Mycroft smiled unpleasantly

“Oh, yes. Given our dubious alliance with the U.S. I tend to keep a close eye on events over the Atlantic, and a so-called god is a matter of national security, not to mention the possible consequences of his magic combined with my brother's intellect and volatile temperament.”

John's eyebrows went up. “Magic? He's what, an illusionist? Derren Brown and all that stuff?”

Mycroft actually laughed.

“You mean you don't know? Oh John, you're slipping. He was all over the news a couple of years ago. Prague, Manhattan?”

The doctor just stared at him, uncomprehendingly, and Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You aren't even going to try to stop him, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Will you at least stay out of it yourself?”

“Nope.”

John may have been spectacularly pissed off with his lanky flatmate, but there was one sure-fire way to know if a case was a good one. If Mycroft wanted it gone, this one was going to be spectacular. And Mary was right, he had missed this. He always missed this, ever since he moved out.

He glanced down at the plate in front of him and picked it up, politely offering it to his 'guest' with a suspiciously straight face.

“Shortbread, Mycroft?”

The Holmes sneer twitched at the older man's lip as he looked with disdain at the offending chocolate-covered confection.

“You will pass on my warning?”

“Nope. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

The eldest Holmes brother turned to leave, just as John realised the word that had slipped by him unnoticed a moment ago.

“Wait, did you say _god_?”

All he received in return was a crooked smile.


End file.
